127, 127, 127

they first met at a library. he still remembered the warm glow of the dim orange-yellow light bleeding from the walls, above the shelves. louis was eighteen and fresh out of high school, and doing uni halfway across the world from his hometown. he'd stumbled across the beautiful building while on a walk, shaped almost like a courthouse or royal monument. the murals splayed across the ceiling reminded him of life before things had gotten complicated. it was probably one of the few places he'd actually missed from new york.

he was sat at one of the aspen wood tables when a man leaned over him, breath smelling of a strong, numbing mint. "i haven't seen you around here before." louis looked up, his eyes met with ones that were such a dark, murky blue that, if he didn't know better, he'd think were jet black. it reminded him of the deepest, most rich depths of the ocean. he was beautiful, louis thought. he held this confidence in each breath, each stride; this confidence that louis admired especially since he knew it was something he would never personally fathom. "sonnet 94, i see. interesting taste."

"i guess so. i'm just revisiting them all."

"my personal favorite is sonnet 60."

"oh, yeah? quite the dark one, aren't you?"

"it's true, though. time is a cruel hand will eventually devour all that exists." the man smiled amicably while holding out his hand, in complete contrast to what he'd just said. "jean vautour. pronounced john, spelled j-e-a-n. nice to meet you."

"louis tomlinson." he cautiously took the man, jean's, outstretched hand. he'd almost pulled away immediately from how deathly cold it was.

"you seem quite young. and i can tell from your accent that you're not from here. are you at new york for school?"

"yeah, i'm here for uni on a scholarship,"

"a bright one, i see. if you'd like, i can show you around sometime. i know how daunting it can be to navigate a foreign country."

"yeah," louis scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "i appreciate that. it is actually quite scary. makes it easier that i know the language, at least. i'm from doncaster, which is, uh, a little town in northern england."

"i'm actually quite familiar with england," he chuckled dryly. louis could have sworn that jean seemed offended or even amused that he even felt the need at all to clarify the location of doncaster, as if he should've known that the other would be aware of the town already. or maybe he imagined it, as the chilling tone only seemed to be present for a split second. "do you have any plans tonight? may i start off the tour of manhattan by showing you the best restaurant around?"

"that sounds lovely, but i'm afraid that i'm just a student and don't have the funds for such a nice meal. thank you for the offer, though." louis responded, a little taken aback by how forward this man he just met had been.

"my treat."

so, somehow, louis found himself on the patio of a candlelit establishment with food that was more expensive than louis had ever seen. exquisite dishes he'd never heard of, high-class french cuisine, breathtaking scenery. jean had even ordered red wine, despite the fact that louis couldn't legally drink in america.

the alcohol, surprisingly, failed to unwind the man at all. he'd maintained his cool demeanor throughout the night, leaving the younger boy to wonder what exactly it was in his bones that'd kept him so grounded. he did learn more about the man, over dinner, however. jean was attending graduate school here, back in his hometown, while he'd done his undergrad in france. he was now twenty four, six years older than louis, having cruised through his education with ease.

there was something that louis felt kindle inside of him; something warm, that told him that this is the healing that he was looking for. how lucky he'd been to capture the attention of someone so elegant.

jean had invited the younger boy to his apartment after they finished their meal, to which louis declined at first, but had gotten roped into anyway, with the man's charming eyes and words. he knew exactly what jean wanted—something that he'd already accepted that he would never enjoy again, but maybe this time, he told himself, things would be different.

they weren't.

their sex was overlooked by stars that seemed to glare with disdain, and he hated every second of it. he was sure from the unsteadiness of his breaths and of his hold that he was shaking, but jean hadn't said anything, only kept going. it was different from what matthew had done to him when he was a kid; much less gentle, much faster than he was used to.

it was painful—overwhelming in every sense of the word.

he tried to close his eyes and imagine himself lying in a soft bed of grass; somewhere beautiful where he wouldn't ever have to hurt. behind his eyelids, though, frustratingly enough, seemed to live only the dark closet full of his mother's old clothes.

"you were made for this," jean would tell him, lips dripping with this tempestuous pitch. "it's like you were born for this very moment in time."

it was what matthew would tell say every time he was brought into that godforsaken room. you were made for this.

maybe, he thought, it really was all he was good for. all he would amount to. but at the same time, jean would always scold him for being too deadpan during sex. for acting like he was just going through the motions with no feeling. it felt contradictory, but made sense in its own way. he was just an object of no real worth, conceived solely to be used by others.

but that hadn't stopped him from going back to jean, every single time. outside of sex, the man was nothing but generous and absolutely lovely; someone whose caliber was way above that of louis'. when put next to jean, he paled in comparison, chokingly unremarkable.

they became exclusive after just three dates, all of them followed by the same sex that reminded louis that he really was worth nothing.

jean was like a drug—louis couldn't get enough of him. when they weren't fucking, jean would treat him with this kindness that he'd never experienced before. almost as if he was special; something to be treasured.

it was perfect, he thought. or as close to perfect as anything in his life could get, at least.

"won't you move in with me?" the man asked one morning, after they woke to bright white sunlight spilling into the penthouse from the ceiling-height windows, just five months into their relationship. "i want to see more of you."

the inquiry made ice shoot through his veins, freezing him to the core. after all, living together would mean more jean, which would mean more sex. but after seeing those dark, dark eyes, thin lips curled into a cunning smile, he couldn't say no.

he was convinced that jean was the best thing that'd ever happened to him. not just because of his assets, but because he'd never be fortunate enough to find another person who would deem someone as vile as he, worthy of their love. even with jean, he'd thoroughly believed that he wasn't worth any of the warmth he received.

the first time jean hit him was eight months after they'd met.

louis made a friend—his first friend—in one of his classes, and decided one afternoon to drop by the guy's flat to play fifa and order pizza. one of the things he'd never really had the chance to enjoy during his time in high school; always shunned as the outcast or pansy gay boy.

he came home to a livid jean, sitting with a book of shakespeare's sonnets open on the dining table. sonnet 94. his eyes were eyes darker than louis thought was possible for eyes to become, disposition even colder than usual.

"where have you been?" he growled, voice shaking.

"i- i called you, but you didn't pick up. was at a friend's place."

"who?"

"from my- my lit theory class. noah."

"are you lying? you hesitated. and i've never heard you speak of this noah person before."

"i'm- i'm not. i'm nervous because you seem so angry, and jean, i hate making you angry," he breathed, voice failing him in the moment. "and he's never really come up in conversation before."

"you'd think i would hear about your first friend, seeing as i'm the one who allowed you to become familiar with this city in the first place."

"i would have gotten on fi-"

a deafening crack, one that resounded so deeply that louis winced at how piercing the sound was. it was a few seconds later, when he felt blood trickle from his nose, when he'd realized that the sound had come from the collision of jean's palm with his face. "how dare you?" the man growled, reptilic features even more prominent when paired with profound rage. "how dare you speak to me like that?"

"i-" louis sputtered, cradling his cheek. "you-"

before the younger boy could even react though, a distraught expression came over jean's features. he stared at his hand, bright red after the impact, as if it were something that no longer belonged to him; something ungodly. "i'm sorry," he whispered. "oh, louis. you know i didn't mean that, right? i would never hurt you. i got upset because i love you. everything i do is because i love you."

the dark blue eyes seemed to assail louis' pale ones. for a moment, he thought he was paralyzed and feared that he would never move again. a weak "i love you too," was all that he could choke out.

it was just a week after that incident when it happened again.

they were in bed, and louis did all he knew how to do. close his eyes and take it.

"am i not good enough?" jean asked, "why don't you act like you enjoy it?"

"i- i do, it's just. it's hard. reminds me of… of things i don't really care to remember."

"god, of course. i always knew you were a whore. you know what? i don't even want to hear it. just take it like a good boy and don't fucking say a word to me."

a book from the bedside table had come crashing into him, its cold leather cover feeling like sandpaper against his skin. the book had a suffocating cross on its binding, gold ink blinding him with every downward strike. it'd pounded against him like there would be no tomorrow, and he wondered if this really was the way he'd die.

the sex that night was cold. it was always cold, with jean's cold hands and cold eyes, but it had been exceptionally so after the beating. he felt the man's tongue trace the back of his neck, his breath seep into his skin and bone, filling him with this indescribable loneliness.

in these times, he would long for matthew. he'd shut everything off and just pray, pray that matthew would return, in place of jean; matthew, who always had the pocket bible on hand. matthew, with his round glasses and long, tied back hair. matthew, who always touched him gently and quietly. matthew, who was the first person who'd taught him how to live like life was something so unbearably fleeting.

he remembered the mornings where he'd take a chair outside and stare at the sun to escape the ringing of the violin.

ever since then, he'd made it a point to overdramatize his reactions to jean inserting himself inside of him. he'd pretend to enjoy it as if it were some god-given gift that washed over him like the sea. he'd imagine himself in places he'd never be, hearing the cruel words grew progressively more and more malicious.

"i am the only person who will ever love you like this."

"you really are disgusting."

"you deserve this."

"all of this is happening for a reason."

"you are nothing in a world of everything."

"you, you were born for this."

"stop, please jut stop," he sobbed one night, "please just let me go."

jean's grip only grew tighter around his wrists, closing in endlessly, leaving dark marks like handcuffs all over his arms. "you don't fucking say that to me, tomlinson. i gave you everything."

he then felt light blinding him overhead, making visible all the scars and deformities of his body. the misshapenness, as jean had called it.

suddenly, he was pressed in shape of a cross like the gold ink on the black book that had struck him months earlier, against the windows that he'd loved so much, still naked, the glass sticking to his skin.

"how do you like that? you're out for everyone to see, like the slut you are. i'm sure that… that priest was it?" jean sneered. "i'm sure that priest would be proud to see you now. all that you are. how do you feel now?" his breath that was usually warm in contrast to the rest of the wintriness of his being was now also wintry. it made the panic that was already wracking his soul convulse even more, screaming through the humiliation, the degradation.

"please-" he choked, only to be held harder against the glass. louis willed for it to disappear like it had in harry potter, allowing him to plunder to his death. the thought of his body; broken and naked and atrocious in all sense of the word, was cathartic. maybe then, he'd be able to get closer to the salvation he always wished for, but seemed so far away. sola fide, he tried to remind himself. sola fide.

he still doesn't remember what had happened after that. maybe jean had fucked him mercilessly, maybe they'd stopped and he spent the night bleeding in the bathroom, maybe he passed out after jean snaked him hands around his throat.

it was stupid, he knew. he was foolish for staying, for allowing it to get to that point at all. it was his fault for not running earlier.

but if he had, there would be nowhere to go. the penthouse was all he had. jean was all he had.

and that wasn't to say that he was never nice to louis. he'd call all the concertos he'd play his own personal 'declarations of love' for the younger boy. declarations that would somehow make up for all the mistreatment that wasn't really mistreatment; just treatment that louis had deserved.

needless to say, he stopped resisting jean's power after that night.

it continued until a few days over the two-year mark since the beginning of their relationship. the beatings had increased from once or a month, to once or twice a week, to nearly every night. every night, he'd be the utmost careful as to not set off the man, but he'd find a way to trigger his anger in some way without fail.

it was then, when the pain grew to become something he was actually fond of.

when zayn called in the middle of an argument between the two, and jean had forced him to pick up to see who it was, voice still broken, the bradford boy just about blew a fuse.

"lou, i don't fucking care, this is all so fucked up," he'd called again the next day, while louis was on his way to class and out of jean's sight. "you have to fucking leave."

"i can't, mate. you know that. i have nothing," he choked. "besides- besides. he loves me."

"you don't make bruises bloom all over the body of someone you love, louis. open your fucking eyes."

"he only does it when i fuck up."

zayn wanted to scream his lungs and throat raw. he wanted them to bleed, as if it'd open louis' eyes to how wrong this all was. but he couldn't. "no amount of fucking up could justify this."

"you don't understand."

"you're right. i don't. i don't want to understand what goes through that psychopath's mind when he does that shit to you."

"you don't fucking know me, z. don't act like you do. if you're doing this to feel like some kind of hero-"

"i'm not! you're delusional. you're delusional, lou! in the kindest way possible, you're fucking insane. i just want the best for you. and this is sick, you just don't see that."

it'd ended when zayn steeled his resolve. he flew to new york with no warning, only texting a time and airport to louis. and there was no way the blue-eyed boy could leave zayn to fend for himself; not in manhattan, not so late at night.

and with only the clothes on his back, they left the country. back to england, where he had come from. no luggage, no money, nothing. no warning. louis, realistically, could have refused, despite everything. he could have called a taxi for zayn, booked a hotel, anything. he could have stayed with jean in new york. in the penthouse.

but for reasons he couldn't place, he didn't.

in truth, the return to england felt much more foreign than moving to new york had. the familiar yet unfamiliar accents, the way people carried themselves, the lack of violin, the lack of the penthouse, the lack of jean and the lack of pain.

he would awake every night to memories of matthew, but mostly memories of jean, and the cold, cold sex that they'd have. it was then, the realized, when he came to terms with the fact that he would never enjoy such a thing again.

he'd tried to get over it, going to bars and finding people to hook up with, but he always got last-minute gold feet, and left with no warning, leaving the confused man or woman to wait for a person that would never return to them.

until harry, that is.

as much as he hadn't detached himself from the past, it was like he was now on a completely separate timeline than matthew, than jean. like what they had, never happened in the first place.

it was liberating, but lonely, in its own fucked up way.

there were nights he'd cry for jean, for matthew, wishing with every fiber of his being that they'd come whisk him up and take him back. to the penthouse, to the closet. to administer the pain he'd deserved.

no matter what he did—studying or reading or writing or just breathing—he knew that none of it was enough to really escape. so he learned to allow it to become him. to devour him, to define him. it made existing easier to realize how wretched he was, and where he really belonged.

on days he dared to be happy, he forced himself to imagine the weight of the bible crush his bones, telling him about every sin he committed, everything he didn't deserve. it was ironic, really, the prevalence of religion within the men in his life, when he wasn't religious at all. his mother had never been, so he hadn't been either.

maybe, he told himself, if he had believed, then none of this would have happened. though he could never bring himself to.

for now, at least, things had become stagnant, despite the fact that the stagnancy held no warmth or closure. it wasn't closure he sought, he figured, so it was okay. he'd bathe in the constance that had been gifted to him and accept it all with dignity. maybe he didn't deserve it, after all this time, but he took it and nurtured it nonetheless.

it was okay, he'd whisper to himself, like a mantra. it was okay. it was okay.